


The Long Night

by paperinik



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Game of Thrones Alternate Season 08, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Gen, I have a better story than Bran, Is s08 even considered canon?, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperinik/pseuds/paperinik
Summary: "All around the battle, Winterfell was crumbling down, burning and falling apart in the dark of the long night. After what it felt like weeks instead of merely hours of fighting, someone, the Gods know who - but, really, could have been anyone of them - started shouting "Retreat!". And that word, repeated by many voices, echoed between the stones of the Castle, haunting its halls, calling for those who were still breathing, signaling their defeat."The Army of the Dead conquers Winterfell and the survivors have to flee South, where the Throne Daenerys wants is still in Cersei's hands.Another alternate ending for Season 8 nobody asked for, but I really needed to do; mature warning for the grade of violence and death you'd expect from GoT.Major character death warning: Some of the main characters may die, this is (how) Game of Thrones (should have been), after all.Fanfic previously known as The Long Night of Westeros.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19





	1. The Crypts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
>   
> Just for this time, I have "a couple" of things that I would like to say before leaving you to the story.
> 
> \- I'm pretty nervous because when I started writing it, this was my first fanfiction ever..in the meanwhile I did a oneshot, but this still is my first longfic.  
> Also, I'm not a native English speaker (let alone writer) and this isn't beta-read by anyone, so please be gentle, but feel free to let me know of my mistakes!
> 
> \- The story is set in show verse. It takes off during the battle of Winterfell and diverges more or less from line 1; please keep in mind that **everything** that has happened up to ep02 has happend to the characters of this story, too. It's my take on how I would have liked to see the story play out in GoT.
> 
> \- Jaime and Brienne are tagged as main romantic relationship of this story just because they're my favourites and the focus of the narration may be slightly in their favour, but this is intended primarily as a choral, general fanfic. Also, I'm trying to stay IC .
> 
> \- This is a WIP, I have 15 chapters in various stages of editing and the rest of the story is already sketched out, so I should be able to keep a regular schedule of a new chapter every two-three weeks. I'll keep you posted in case of changes.
> 
> \- Lastly, as promised, a huge thank you to Ami17han, Merrymaya and River_Melody_Pond, who have shared with me their best advice on this story.
> 
> And now, we are ready to go, enjoy!

The number of the army of the dead was overwhelming. All of their opponents, the Living, were continuously hitting and slicing and piercing hundreds of oblivious corpses and yet, there were always endless more. Corpses after corpses, rotting and reanimating, overtaking them. The dead were just too many.

For a brief moment the Living felt like they could have a chance of winning: there was still a crowd of zombie warriors aiming at them, but they appeared to be slightly less than the defeated ones. If the army of the living fought right, if they were able to spare enough strength to beat them all, they could have saved the world.

But then, the Night King pulled all of the fallen back on their rotting feet and the hope was gone. Among his Army there were now friends, brothers, fathers, all transformed in senseless zombies, trying to bring the Living on the other side, their side.

All around the battle, Winterfell was crumbling down, burning and falling apart in the dark of the long night. After what it felt like weeks instead of merely hours of fighting, someone, the Gods know who - but, really, could have been anyone of them - started shouting "Retreat!". And that word, repeated by many voices, echoed between the stones of the Castle, haunting its halls, calling for those who were still breathing, signalling their defeat.

All of them, soldiers and commanders alike, started running towards the only place they knew it was safe: the Crypts. Chased by the stink of death they found themselves in front of the ancient, huge, stony door.  
The strength of a dozen men forced it open, revealing the path to safety. The group of few hundreds of scared warriors started the descent through the huge galleries under the ground, where air was colder and thicker with moisture and dust. The more they were getting closer to safety, the less it sounded like it. From the dark pit in front of them screams and cries were coming, freezing the blood in their veins.

Arya Stark sprinted in front of everyone, suddenly finding herself in another dreadful battlefield. On her right a group of people was hiding behind a statue. In a corner on the opposite side, Gilly was holding her terrified son, while in front of her a young woman, a eight year-old stable boy and the Queen's handmaid were helping her sister Sansa and Tyrion Lannister keeping a handful of dusty, frail skeletons at bay.

Arya never thought she would ever see her sister engaging in any kind of fight, let alone wield a weapon while attacking a skeleton.  
She was fighting, fierce and terrified at the same time, passing back and forth with the others helping her the same dragonglass knife that her sister had given her. While the younger stark was realising that they weren't going to last much longer, she noticed a huge headless skeleton with a dark cape aiming at the little group of inexperienced warriors. Without giving much thought to who in life it could have been, she sprinted in front of her sister, stabbing it with her Valyrian steel dagger. Its dust hadn't even started settling that a zombie wolf suddenly appeared from a dark corner, dragging back the eight-year-old.  
By the time his companions realised what was happening, his cries had already faded.

"Arya!"  
Sansa exclaimed the moment she saw her sister, desperation with a hint of relief in her voice.  
"Thank the Gods you're all right!" She said, throwing her arms around the young woman. She moved a little bit back to face her, keeping her hands still on her sister's shoulders and looking at her with terrified eyes, full of tears.  
"I've tried to do something " The redhead sighed and paused for a second to look around her, to the other soldiers who had recovered from the momentaneous shock and had now launched an attack to the skeletons.

"I've used the pointy end, " she continued, with a little smile " but they were too many and took us by surprise. The kitchen lady has been- and that poor boy... " she trailed off, pausing for a bunch of seconds to try and contain the panic, before going on.   
" I - I think I've killed mother." She added, glancing at her right, at a corpse with very red hair.

Around the two women, the battle was raging with fire and dragonglass, but the survivors from the courtyard were enough to defeat quickly all the skeletons with few well-placed blows.  
Soon, the clinks of the battle grew silent and Arya quietly assessed the situation, looking around her. Grey, dusted bones and fragments of decaying corpses laid scattered all around the floor. She knew some of them must had belonged to someone she had loved, but quickly put aside the thought, too painful, too distracting in a battle.

Among the rubble, the fallen fighters were resting, ready to join the fight against the Living as soon as the Night King had summoned them.

In a corner, Sam Tarly was hugging Gilly and their son. Not far from them, there were the two Lannister brothers, with ser Brienne and her exhausted squire standing nearby.

In the silence, distant, haunting thumps started to reverberate, reminding them that the battle wasn't over yet and they were far from safe.

The Living were now exchanging terrified glances, sharing the same ghastly thought: they were trapped. They needed to quickly find a way out, or their destiny was to die like rats.

Distant memories of her, Bran and a toddling Rickon exploring the crypts and playing at heroes and knights suddenly flashed in Arya's mind.

"There's a passage" she whispered, more to herself than to the others near her.

"There's a passage behind the curled-up wolf at the bottom of the main gallery" she repeated a bit louder, this time addressing her sister. " Bran, Rickon and I used to play in that passage, it's mostly forgotten and collapsed here and there, but it should still exist. It leads to a meadow in the hill behind Wintertown. We must leave."

Sansa nodded, suddenly recovering and concentrating on the matter.  
She stood and reached Tyrion, Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne. They spoke quietly and quickly, dividing soon after, coordinating two different groups.  
Sansa and Tyrion went at the back, showing the way to escape to the folk, urging women and children first.

Arya reached the two knights, one by the other’s side as she had grown used to see them in the last few days, who were summoning soldiers and fighters, calling for dragonglass weapons and torches.  
Ser Jorah and the ginger wildling started to repeat the same instructions on the other side of the gallery and soon a large group of fighters was gathered, ready to resume the war after the brief pause.

In the narrow space between the crypts and the access gallery there were no more squads or ranks; they were all together, Dothrakis, Unsullied, Westerosi, all part of the same battle. They were slowly advancing up the stairs and toward the door; fire first, Valyrian steel second and dragonglass daggers last, hoping to buy some time for those escaping at the back through the passages.

Behind them, a persistent litany was keeping them company in the wait for the impending clash. It sounded like a distant memory of a forgotten lullaby, but It was the red priestess, invoking her Lord of Light to fire up the debris at the sides of the gallery.

Suddenly, red flames were rising along the walls of the gallery up to the stone vault, while a few seconds later the dead started storming in. Providentially slowed down by the fire walls that left only a narrow passage at the centre, the wights were forced to advance in a line.

And then it was like in the courtyard again. Everyone fighting for their lives.  
Screams and bangs were filling the tunnels. Every living person was fighting at least two dead zombies at a time, slowly retreating, the situation growing more desperate every passing minute.

Cornered at the bottom of the gallery, the fighters had at least been able to resist long enough to let others escape. The more experienced ones were now covering for those who had started to take the tunnels, following the last group of women and children.

Soon, only a handful of the most skilled and best equipped were left to deal with the herd of corpses, in a clearly uneven confrontation.   
Next to the entrance of the tunnel, Arya was fighting along with Gendry, Beric Dondarrion and the Hound in what she assumed must had looked quite an uncoordinated, yet very effective, fashion.

From her position she could see Brienne, fighting by Ser Jaime’s side, the both of them taking turns to cover each other and Podrick Payne, who was successfully facing a group of huge wights with just a torch.

Suddenly a White Walker reached the front line.  
Brienne saw it out of the corner of her eye, slowly advancing behind ser Jaime. The creature was taking its time, pointing its prey and moving with the calmness fitting an unnatural being.

The Lannister hadn't noticed it yet, too busy with the dozens of corpses attacking his front. Pod hadn’t either, but Brienne decided he was far enough to be safe, at least from the Night King’s lieutenant.

"Behind you!" She tried to scream to warn her companion, but the hoarse voice got lost in the rumble of the battle, even if they were no more than eight feet apart.  
She suddenly felt the weariness fading away with a surge of adrenaline, and with renewed strength she advanced quickly, slaying the corpses separating her from the knight.

There were still a handful of wights between Brienne and the White Walker as she watched in horror the monster lifting its icy blade, ready to hit Jaime, who couldn’t parry back, least leaving his flank to the wights around him.  
With a strain, she jumped forward, gripping her sword in front of her. In one swift movement, she got rid of the corpses in front of her and went forward, aiming at the White Walker.

Jaime turned in horror, just in time to see Oathkeeper crush the blade pointing at him as if it had been made of fine crystal, and then run through the monster, which immediately vanished in a whirlwind of ice.  
At the same time, hundreds of wights abruptly disintegrated, turning in swirls of debris.

Jaime looked in awe at the woman who was now standing fiercely in front of him, returning his glance.  
She had embers and frozen fragments whirling around, giving her the appearance of a stunning, ferocious warrior goddess, sent to earth to save his life once more.

Overwhelmed, he couldn't hold back and took a step forward.  
He kissed her lips and enveloped her in a tight embrace, as much as the armours let him, forgetting the world in pieces around them.  
For a brief moment, the war, the long night, the conflicts, everything around them disappeared. There was just the two of them and a warmth he had never felt before, spreading from within his chest, up to the sweetness of her rough lips, which were tentatively kissing him back.

For a split second he wished to live in that moment forever.  
But that was impossible.  
Soon, he got dragged back to reality by Gendry’s voice, resounding in the temporarily empty galleries, urging everybody to take the passage.  
Jaime reluctantly let go of Brienne and indulged himself giving her a last, soft, look. She was blushing, smiling a confused, shy smile back at him.  
He looked around them, giddy. But his enthusiasm quickly dimmed. Nobody was paying attention to them, everyone focused on running to safety. Someone was limping, others bleeding. He knew too that if they wanted to come out alive from this battle, that was their moment and couldn’t waste a second of it. Jaime nodded to lady knight and together ran towards the dark galleries.

Next to where Podrick Payne was when the knights had reached him, Arya Stark had stopped and turned to say a silent goodbye to the castle one last time.  
She was looking at the crypts, half-empty by now, save some scattered brave heroes.  
Ser Jorah Mormont, bloodied and exhausted, was still fighting some remaining corpses alongside Yohn Royce in the main gallery.  
Beric Dondarrion had reached them too.

The young Stark startled, eyes wide, feeling like she wanted to say something to the knight, but too worn out to form any thought.  
So, when the man turned to glance in her direction and nod to her, she just nodded him back, while Gendry was pulling her away, to safety.

Running, they crossed the red witch, who was moving forward upstream.  
She passed Davos, who was standing, frowning, in the tunnel, while surveilling the crypts, hidden in the shadow casted by an archway.

“I've told you, Ser Davos,” she said without stopping, nor turning to him, “my end is in Winterfell”.

He opened his mouth to answer back, but she was already in the crypt, ready to confront a new wave of undead. He took the gallery. A couple of steps in, he turned and saw her, wrapped in a firestorm of her own doing. Behind the wall of flames he could make out the silhouettes of the last heroes, fighting in vain the army of the dead to give the rest of them a chance to survive.

Ser Davos rushed towards the escape, putting increasing darkness between himself and the nightmare he had just left behind.  
The last to come out from the tunnel in a small stone cabin near the top of the hill of Wintertown, he was met by a biting winter air.  
The fire he had witnessed raging in the crypts was going to slow down the army of the dead for a while, so he let himself enjoy the change of pace. The quietness of the wood around him was disarming and the tingling feeling of the freezing clear air on his skin was both refreshing and liberating.

The thick silence was being broken only by the sporadic moans of the wounded, while the survivors had gathered in a clearing that overlooked what was left of the castle, still burning in the dark.  
He slowly reached the group of his comrades, still struggling with accepting the notion of having escaped the seven hells.

Nobody was speaking; some were lost in thoughts, others too exhausted to say anything.  
All at once, an eerie mist started to slowly fall on the ancient building, enveloping and hiding it completely.  
Just a few minutes later, the thick haze cleared and, suddenly, Winterfell was dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> _Next chapter in two weeks_


	2. The Godswood

Bran Stark was waiting, seated on his chair, under the Heart Tree.

Around him, the snow muffled every sound coming from both the inside and the outside of the Godswood, giving the place an unsettling sense of tranquillity.  
The clinks and shouts of the battle seemed so far in the sharp icy air, way beyond the stone walls circling the quiet holy place, that everyone in there felt like they were a world away from their companions.  
Instead, they all knew that the only thing separating them from death was just a stone wall. Everyone was silent, tensely waiting, ready to sense the tiniest signal of an approaching enemy.

The three-eyed raven boy had studied every possible outcome, every possible way that the battle could evolve in, but as the fight went on, he could only see the number of possibilities in front of him gradually narrowing down, until there was only one left.  
He slowly turned his head.  
It was time.

Not far from him, Theon Greyjoy saw Bran glancing up to the sky.  
He followed the gaze of the Stark boy, but the only thing he was able to make out in the dark above the Godswood was a bunch of unmoving clouds.  
Just a moment later, a sudden, violent, snowstorm started to rage and a huge dragon appeared in the middle of it, rhythmically flapping its enormous wings.

Theon drew his bow high, ready to shoot if the rider of the gigantic creature turned out to be the Night King.  
The strong blizzard was preventing to see anything farther than a couple of feet, while the dragon and its still unknown rider were slowly approaching, hindered by the strong winds.  
When the animal was so near that its claws were grazing the walls of the Godswood, the Greyjoy lowered his bow, immediately imitated by his men.

"Jon!"  
He shouted, his voice lost in the storm.  
He could barely see his old friend's silhouette moving in the dark, hidden by the thick, huge snowflakes flying around, and could almost hear his voice, but the words he kept yelling were utterly incomprehensible and overcome by the storm’s din.

Just above him, Theon saw the dragon spit fire toward the entrance of the garden and instinctively drew his bow up again, suddenly alarmed, waiting for the monsters to appear at any moment.

Backlit by a wall of flames, a group of seven White Walkers appeared behind the thick iron gate protecting the garden.  
With one gliding move, the monster at the front of the line effortlessly opened the shutters as if they hadn’t been locked in first place and started to walk towards the fighters deployed in the yard.

The Greyjoy and his men began to shoot dragon glass arrows at the invaders.  
Dozens of the wights coming behind the head group immediately fell under the offence, which was leaving the White Walkers unscathed instead.  
The Karstark and Ironborn forces quickly engaged in a battle, even if they knew their fate was already sealed.

Behind Theon, Jon hastily landed to join the fight, while Rhaegal was curling around Bran, protecting him and thus taking almost half of the space in the yard with his giant body.

The King in the North rapidly reached the front line and stabbed two White Walkers in a row with Longclaw, taking them by surprise and immediately causing a good portion of the wights to explode in icy fragments, giving the living still standing in the enclosure some time to readjust and take new positions.

Soon after, Jon was about to charge a third creature on his side, while Theon and a couple of his men were wiping out the zombies near the frozen lake, when a shriek from the sky announced the Night King approaching through the clouds, riding Viseryon.

Hearing the call, Rhaegal got up and immediately took a defensive position around Bran, spitting fire in the air, spreading its wings and curving its long, scaled neck upwards.

Theon and Jon shared a shocked glance, a thousand of terrifying options in their minds, both of them trying to pick the best one, or rather, the lesser evil among them.

"Jon!"  
The first one shouted in the intensifying blizzard, his words carried off by the winds and barely audible by his friend, even if they were no more than six feet apart. "You need to bring him to safety!"

The King in the North looked around confused, clearly trying to find a better way out, only to find them impassable or unfeasible.  
Behind them, Rhaegal spit fire to his undead brother, making it clear that time was ticking fast.

"Go, there's no time!" Theon urged with glassy eyes and hurry in his voice.  
The two men run towards the dragon, while the ever-increasing intensity of the blizzard was hiding the few iron born left fighting around them.  
Strong winds were impeding the movement of the two, pushing them back, putting their balance to a test and hitting them with rocks, branches and embers.

Proceeding with half closed eyes, Jon reached Rhaegal and mounted on him first, then turned to pull Bran up, while Theon was lifting and pushing the boy from the ground.

Behind them, the Night King’s shape was slowly appearing in the mist around the Heart Tree, coming slowly closer, as if he had all the eternity in front of him and meant to spend it toying with his prey.

"Take Longclaw" shouted Jon, desperately offering his sword to his friend still on the battlefield.  
"I'll come back as soon as I can, to take you!" he promised, shouting hopelessly, his voice hoarse from all the yelling.

Theon took the blade nodding solemnly and watched the dragon take off.

"You're a good man, Theon." Bran said impassive, his voice lacking of any inflection, while sticking out of Rhaegal, which was already a couple of feet off the ground. "Thank you."

Greyjoy slightly bowed his head in the young man’s direction, then turned, took aim and launched to attack the Night King.

Jon looked behind them from the air, watching the Godswood become quickly smaller and increasingly hidden behind the dark, icy mist that was enveloping all of Winterfell and extinguishing the fires burning the site.

He couldn't see his friend anymore, but in the unreal silence that had suddenly descended around them, and just a moment before Rhaegal pierced the clouds and reached the serenity of the clear world lit by a shining moon above them, Jon Snow heard, loud and clear, the tingling sound of a shuttering sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, Theon's death is pretty similar to the Long Night episode, but I still think it was one of the few perfect things in the episode.  
> In fact, I couldn't find a better way out for him, but it's one of the last things I'm taking from the serie, I swear.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> _Next chapter will be posted in two weeks_


	3. A clearing near Wintertown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All of them were wearing the signs and dirt of what they just had escaped, well aware that those missing there, hadn't._  
>   
>  The survivors of Winterfell regroup and decide their next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past the introduction, we're now starting with the real plot.  
> I know in these tough times many people prefer to read something fluffier, but I've had this story in development for almost a year now, so I couldn't let a nasty virus to stop me.. if you're here anyway, I hope you're safe and enjoying the ride with me!
> 
> It's probably too soon to tell, but I'd love to hear from you what are your thoughts on this story.  
> Comments and kudos are always welcomed :)

Above the clouds a sparkling moon was lighting up the soft expanse, with its high grounds and silvery valleys, peacefully expanding as far as Jon's eyes could see.  
Given the possibility, he would have stayed there, where the Long Night didn't seem scary, but actually quite pleasant, with its shiny stars and a mild cool breeze. On his right, another dragon silently pierced the curtain of clouds. It floated mid-air, flapping its wings intimidatingly and gracefully at the same time.

"What happened, Jon?" Daenerys asked.  
The two dragons started to placidly fly next to each other, bound for no specific destination, the two riders silent for a bit.

"The Night King reached the Godswood." the man eventually spoke .  
"We barely slipped away in the nick of time. I couldn't see a damn thing back there. Is someone still fighting in the courtyard? We must go back and help!" Jon impelled.  
Before Daenerys could answer back, a flat voice came from behind him.

"Most of those left escaped through a passage in the Crypts. They're waiting for us on the hill behind Wintertown".  
Without a word, Jon directed the dragon downwards, immediately followed by Daenerys.

In a moment, they were back to the horrors of the Long Night. The only light was coming from behind them, where the fire burning Winterfell was uncannily dying out.  
Strong winds were hindering their flight and snowflakes big as apples were hitting all of them.  
Jon was struggling to keep his hold on Rhaegal steady, and he could only hope that Bran had enough strength in his arms to keep the balance during the troubled descent in the dark.

Near the top of the hill described by Bran, the snowstorm started to dissipate and they could finally see from above few small fires, signalling the presence of the survivors.  
Rhaegal quickly found a clear spot to land, helped in doing so by the scared people running away from its trajectory.

As soon as Jon dismounted, battered and soaked, his sisters run towards him, relieved to see their two brothers safe. They immediately hugged the elder one, while two Northern men were helping Bran get to the ground.  
In the rush, his wheeled chair had been left in the Godswood, so the soldiers had to put him on a makeshift seat made of a couple of woods covered in sparse furs promptly arranged not far from his siblings.

Sansa looked away from her little brother and turned around. She saw Rhaegal fly away and followed his movement with her gaze, then went back to the ground and browsed the faces around her.  
After a minute, she looked at Jon again, worried.

“Where’s Theon?” she asked.

The grim look that her brother gave in return didn’t need any additional word.  
Sansa burst into tears and sat down on a log, unable to say anything. She covered her face with her gloved hand, drawing in unrestrained breaths, feeling surprisingly overwhelmed by the loss of the closest friend she had had during her darkest time.

Of course she was prepared to lose someone dear during the battle, like everyone had been and she knew she should have been thankful that her siblings were all safe.  
But in some way, she felt it had been unfair for Theon to go like this. She wished they had had time for one last, meaningful, goodbye more, or to have been able to be by his side during his last moments.

Jon couldn’t find anything to say to console her, but sat down on the ground next to the young woman, holding her shoulders in a tight embrace, and finding himself some comfort in their shared grief.

From above, Daenerys was looking for someone else.  
She immediately spotted Missandei, curled beside Grey Worm, both seated close to a small fire, surrounded by half a dozen terrified kids.  
She could see Tyrion, busy talking with Ser Davos and that ferocious man they called the Hound.  
But Ser Jorah was nowhere to be seen. With a faint hope that he had been sent on patrol, Daenerys drove Drogon towards the spot that Rhaegal had just cleared, and dismounted.

The crowd was opening around her to let her pass through as she walked towards the group of nobles and warriors at the edge of the woods.  
She saw Tyrion noticing her walking in his direction and casting a glance towards where, she assumed, Varys was.  
The Spider immediately appeared at the side of her Hand, and they both moved to meet her halfway, relatively far from everyone else.  
From their gloomy bearing she could feel something was wrong.

"Your grace." Tyrion greeted her warily, casting a look to Varys and avoiding her eyes.

"Where is Ser Jorah?" She asked the dwarf. She needed to know, no time for courtesies.

"He… has stayed behind, to help us all escape, your Grace. We wouldn't be here without him. I'm deeply sorry."

The Queen nodded, her eyes filling with tears, and silently turned back.  
She could see through her foggy eyes Missandei, worried, getting up from the log she was seated on to reach her, but Daenerys shook her head, signalling her friend she had no need.  
She had no need of nonsense comforting words, no need of empty compassion.  
No, what she felt, mounting inside of her, was wrath.

She hastily walked past Jon, still seated beside Sansa and oblivious of what was happening around him, focused solely on petting his white, battered direwolf that had appeared from who knows where.  
Daenerys kept walking regally and unwavering, reaching Drogon, who had landed again to meet her, and mounted on him without a glance to the folks around, who in turn were watching her gingerly from afar.

As soon as she grasped his scales, Drogon twirled in the air, immediately joined by Rhaegal.  
In some way aware of the the loss of the benevolent knight they were acquainted with, and feeling the anguish of their mother, the two dragons flew her up in the sky, emitting loud, mourning cries in the silence of the night.

Everyone in the clearing was watching, fascinated, the two creatures dancing in the dark sky.  
Everyone, except a little group near a bonfire at the edge of the woods.  
Ser Brienne was bent over an unconscious Podrick, laying on some furs, in a pool of blood.

His leg had been hit by a wight just few moments before Brienne had been able to slash the White Walker with Oathkeeper.  
Her squire had limped through the galleries soaked in his blood, leaning alternatively on the two knights who were accompanying him, and had collapsed to the ground the moment they had reached the clearing.

Silent tears were running down the Maid of Tarth’s cheeks, leaving nearly frozen wakes, while Samwell Tarly was trying to medicate the boy.  
The brother of the Night Watch looked up at her and Ser Jaime, who was standing behind her, his only hand protectively resting on her shoulder.

"I've managed to contain the bleeding, my Lady -ehm- Ser, -" he corrected himself after a brief pause, shifting his gaze between the two knights he had in front of him "but the boy needs immediate care by more skilled and better equipped hands. There's nothing more I can do, I’m afraid." he concluded, looking at the man, while ser Brienne erupted in a silent, controlled, sob.

"Thank you, Maester" the Lannister said, nodding.

"Oh, I'm not a Maester, my Lord, I'm a member of the Night Watch, or at least what is left of it. My name is Samwell Tarly."

Jaime halted, taken by surprise. "Son of Randyll Tarly?" he asked.

"Yes, my Lord" the lad answered, evidently uncomfortable.

Jaime frowned and nodded. "Well, thank you Samwell" he added, freeing him to go.

During their exchange, Brienne had managed to put herself together and was now gently caressing her squire's hair.  
Jaime crouched down next to her in silence.

"I've failed him" she whispered after a while, her eyes fixed on the reddish snow on the ground in front of her.

"No you didn't. You trained him well.” replied the Lannister.  
“The fact that he didn't die in Winterfell proves that. He knew what the stakes were and chose to fight until the last second. You must admit he was pretty impressive with that torch, back in the crypts."

Her lips curved in a small smile. He had been indeed.

"He wouldn't have lasted the first heard if it wasn't for you.” Jaime went on. “He's a strong lad, he's going to be better, you’ll see." _-_ at least, he hoped so.

But for Brienne was enough. He saw her relaxing a bit, watching Podrick with a more collected expression.  
He looked up, to a couple of stars peering out of the clouds that made him think of another travel across Westeros with Brienne, long time before.

The sight of a group forming not far from them, around a going bonfire set slightly apart from the other ones, interrupted his thoughts and caught his attention.  
When his brother gazed in their direction, Jaime gently squeezed Brienne’s arm.  
She nodded, covered her squire with more furs, and followed the other knight to the council that had been forming.

The two of them reached the group in silence and upon their arrival both examined the circle of people.  
Around the fire, all the survivors with any rank had gathered. Some were showing blank, shocked or exhausted expressions, others bruised or puffy eyes.  
All of them were wearing the signs and dirt of what they just had escaped, well aware that those missing there, hadn't.

When Daenerys, at last, joined too, they were ready to begin, but nobody was actually ready to speak.  
Eventually, Tyrion’s voice broke the heavy silence surrounding them.

“My Lord, my Ladies, I’m aware it is a painful truth to acknowledge aloud, but I think we all have the same thought in mind. We have lost.  
We have lost Winterfell, we have lost friends as well valiant fighters, we have lost ...everything.” The dwarf admitted, grave.  
“We must now plan for the immediate needs: run to safety, find a shelter to rest, get food, and offer proper care to the wounded.  
We need to decide what to do and where to go, how to keep the folk with us safe and figure out a way to defeat the Army of the Dead, if there is one."  
He paused, overwhelmed by the enormity of the task he himself had just presented. 

"And to make things in no way easier," the dwarf went on "we are here on borrowed time.  
Soon, our last protectors in the crypts will be defeated and the dead will be upon us once again.  
We need to flee, quickly.”  
His voice echoed in the dark, conjuring terrible scenarios.

“The Weirwood Tree has been frozen.” Bran Stark announced, in a seemingly unrelated response, "Winterfell has fallen, there isn’t a living soul left there."  
Sansa and Arya shared a glance, their father's words resounding in their minds - _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell" the boy echoed their thoughts, looking in his sisters’ direction across the flames.  
"It's not just an old saying, it's a piece of antique wisdom.

The Night King didn’t come to Winterfell to defeat the living. He came to conquer the castle and destroy its Godswood.  
The symbols that the Army of the Dead is leaving in their wake are all part of an ancient ritual to defeat the Old Gods.  
The Heart Tree in Winterfell’s Godswood has been frozen as a result, and Winter and the Long Night are advancing with its magic.  
He is targeting all the weirwood trees in Westeros: the more Heart Trees get frozen, the more the Night King becomes powerful.  
He already is. I can’t see Winterfell as clearly as I used to, he is interfering with my sight there.

The ritual needs time, and the Army of the Dead is slow.” Bran went on after a brief pause “if we move South, we will be safe for a while.”

When the Three Eyed Raven stopped talking, the only sound around them was the crackling of the fire and the distant call of some crows and wolves in the forest. Nobody spoke, all of them straining once again to process the new information and what it implied.

“Thank you Bran.” Jon spoke at last, nodding in his half-brother - _no, cousin_ , he mentally corrected himself - direction.  
“Sam, you’re the closest thing we have to a Maester, what’s the situation?”

“Well, it’s bad.” His friend promptly answered, not mincing his words.  
“Gilly and a couple of other people are helping me at best that they can, but we are still too much a few and none of us is a real Maester.  
Nobody survived without a scratch. Lots have minor wounds, many more have serious injuries and a few are -” he paused, casting a nervous look towards Brienne “in immediate need of experienced attention”.

"We could ask for help to Whiteharbor and House Reed.” intervened Sansa, thinking out loud.  
“They have some good Maesters and they've both been loyal to the Starks for generations. We could send them a raven if we found one, but it would take at least a week to meet them halfway, provided they accept our request and we're able to travel at good speed".

"I'm afraid some of us don't have that much time, my Lady." Sam answered, casting another worried glance towards ser Brienne, who was standing stiff, her hand gripping Oathkeeper.  
She was frowning, stubbornly concentrating on the flames and not paying much attention to what was being said around her.  
Ser Jaime was next to her, wearing a worried expression on his face.

“I don’t think it would be wise to split in two different directions at this point,” the Lannister intervened “we’ve lost many men, we have few weapons left and the general morale is pretty low. Our first priority should be to tend to those in need and go anywhere South.”  
Where exactly he didn’t know. Maybe Dorne - Seven Hells, maybe even Sothoryos, if that meant the dead wouldn’t be able to reach them.  
_Please just not King's Landing_ \- he thought.  
He had no will to meet Cersei’s forces on a battlefield. They were his men, for Gods’ sake.

A thought hit him: his men were still in Riverrun. An army of healthy, rather well fed and armed men.  
They probably ignored of both the White Walkers and his journey North.  
If only he could reach them… they would be the kind of force that would be precious against the Army of the Dead, once they had found out how to fight it.  
His experience as Commander taught him that no army was invincible.  
Take the Dothraki, deadly on an open field, lost if driven to narrow gorges. He had never faced an enemy wielding magic, though.  
It was vital to find the Night King's weak point, before that, any confrontation with him would only result in more loss on their part.

Ser Jaime stirred from his considerations, finding the others involved in a heated argument.  
  
"I don’t care who sits on the Throne, I'm not risking my men's lives for what would well be a suicide mission." Sansa was stating firmly.

"So what's the alternative," the Dragon Queen was coldly replying back "stay here in Wintertown, let everyone freeze and starve until the Night King comes?"

"My men would be ready to fight again tomorrow already, not like you, spoiled Southerners" Tormund roared, snapping a glance to Brienne, as if he hoped to win her over with exaggerated shows of strength.  
Jaime sniggered. Brienne wasn't so superficial to fall for something like that... or was she?  
A nervous look in her direction revealed she was still lost in thought, unaware of the dispute going on around the fire.

“My Lords, my Ladies." Tyrion intervened "Let's all take a deep breath. We're all wearied down from the battle and easy to provoke. On one thing we all agree, I reckon: every minute counts for the injured.  
But we must be at our best to make rightful judgements. We can’t let exhaustion make decision in our behalf on other people’s lives.  
I say we all have some rest in the village on the other side of the hill.  
  
I’ve spoken to a woman who used to live there, it’s just a small walk away and all the houses are abandoned. We can take shelter for a couple of hours of sleep, maybe even light up some hearths for warmth.  
Ser Davos, ” the hand of the Queen went on, speaking to the knight “you have been on patrol with said lady there, are there horses left in the stables? Any food?”

“Aye, there are a handful of horses, and maybe a cart or two which could be useful to carry the injured and the children.” The man answered.  
“Generally speaking, the animals seemed well fed and healthy nevertheless, probably were forgotten by their owners when they fled to Winterfell not long ago.  
I’ve no idea about the food, though. If there is any, it will be scarce and probably rotten.”

“Thank you, Ser.”

After a pause, during which he seemed to weigh different options, Tyrion Lannister turned to Daenerys and went on.

“Your Grace, do you think the **dragons** ” he stressed on the word, implying something - _someone_ \- else “would be able to fly to White Harbour and back, bringing here a Maester or two? They’d certainly be a quicker mean of transportion than a travel by land.”

She pondered on the request for a bit.

“After some rest, I think yes, they can.” She replied, letting no emotion show.  
Tyrion looked at Jon too, who silently nodded his approval.

“So we have a plan” the dwarf spoke again, his voice loud and clear, feeling everyone’s attention on him.  
“We all have some rest till the morrow - which I’m afraid will not be any brighter than now.  
Then we all leave, your Grace and Jon Snow flying to Whiteharbor to announce we’re approaching and to ask for aid, the rest of us on foot. We’ll carry the injured and the children on the carts we can find, until help reach us.”

“And after that, my Lord?” Arya Stark asked.  
He could not see her across the fire, but could hear something challenging about her tone.

“After that, when we’ll all be warm, rested and fed, my Lady, we plan how to defeat the Night King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> _Next chapter in two weeks_


	4. Whiteharbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Life after lockdown is incredibly messier than I expected, so I'm sorry to announce I'll have to skip the next two-weeks update and I'll be able to post next chapter in 4 weeks.
> 
> Having said that, I wasn't happy at all with the last part of this chapter either, so I figured I could post the part I'm ok with now and sometime during this month update this chapter.  
> So, in short, you'll at least have a mini update during the hiatus. :)  
> When I publish it I'll probably put a notice in the summary of the story, so it's up to you, read it as I post it, or wait for the whole chapter as it was intended to be!
> 
> Enjoy!

The New Castle stood grandly, overlooking the port and the entire city of Whiteharbor.  
From the high gallery at the top of the tower that had been assigned as guest quarters to the group of survivors coming from Winterfell, Jaime Lannister was observing the sparse merchant vessels anchored in the roadstead. There were several of them, some taking refuge from the storm looming on the horizon, and some others quietly waiting to be allowed in the internal harbour.

In the distance, the rough waters of the Bite looked like boiling mud, while waves tall like towers were crashing on the walls of the external port.  
The sun, low above the sea, was pale and hidden behind a dense blanket of sombre clouds that let only few rays through. They occasionally reached the squirts of the waves, making them shine like the purest and fleeting gem, creating a fascinating spectacle of light.  
It was a particularly endearing view, Jaime noticed, when an eternal night was threatening to swallow the world into its darkness.

Freezing winds were blowing from the sea, bringing its salty smell and the cries of the seabirds of prey across the stony white streets uphill, tinged with lead, in reflection of the dull sky.

Jaime stood there, leaning on the white marble balustrade, enjoying the feeling of freedom those winds gave him.  
He smiled, noticing how used he was getting to the cold of the North. He was aware that dangerous times were ahead of him, yet he was starting to think he had never felt so light in his entire life.

Behind him, the familiar steps he was waiting for came quickly closer, but he didn’t move, letting the other person to reach him on the balcony.  
Chubby, gloved hands grabbed the railing next to him and after a moment Sam Tarly’s voice, free of any hesitation, said:

"Podrick is healing fast, I think by the end of this week he'll be able to stand on his own feet.”  
Jaime nodded in response and the man went on, adding with a small smile: “As usual, Ser Brienne has refused to leave his side."

The Lannister chuckled to the report. The brother of the Night’s Watch had taken the habit to update him on Podrick’s progresses and always concluded with Brienne’s stubbornness in assisting her squire out of a mix of duty, affection and guilt.

Since their arrival in Whiteharbor a fortnight earlier, she had retreated in the infirmary, refusing to leave the boy’s side unless needed in official matters and thus leaving Jaime in the sole company of his brother or Sam.  
The latter had grown so acquainted with him that almost didn’t stammer anymore when addressing the knight.

"Thank you for your help with Pod." Jaime acknowledged after a pause, glancing to his side. "The Maesters said that without your first aid he would have died. He owes you his life."

"I am just glad I was helpful, Ser.” Sam answered cheerfully. “I really liked learning healing techniques at the Citadel, even if the rest was... well, disappointing." he halted with a shrug.

Jaime tittered.  
"Yeah, I know something about that." He answered, remembering his time in the Kingsguard, when he had realised the role was actually different from what he had imagined as a boy.

Sam made a little smile, not feeling confident enough to ask more to the Kingslayer.  
He was intimidated at first when the Lannister had made his entrance in Winterfell, his name forerunning him. But after knowing him better, Sam was starting to struggle with making the Oathbreaker reputation fit with the somehow friendly knight in front of him.

They both fell silent for a bit, lost in thought. Their eyes gazing at the horizon, their minds elsewhere.

"Your brother saved my life during his last battle, you know." Jaime suddenly said. "He was a good lad, didn't deserve to die like that." 

Surprised by the unexpected subject, Sam looked around nervously, the signs of an internal conflict showing on his face, before saying: 

"Were you..." he paused for a second, hesitant. Then went on, lowering his voice.  
"Were you there when she..." He nodded in the direction of the castle, leaving the rest unspoken, whether for incapability to say it aloud or out of fear of being heard, Jaime didn't know.

"No, I wasn't. I saw an opening during the battle and charged both her and the dragon. I ended up falling in the bay.  
It wasn't a well thought plan in hindsight" he admitted with a side glance and a wry smile.   
"I hoped to end the war... and yet here I am now, in the North, fighting an army of corpses by her side."

"You never swore to her though."

Jaime paused, weighing his answer. He wasn’t in King’s Landing where walls had ears, but he knew his position was precarious nonetheless.

"I haven’t.” he finally admitted. “I came here to fight the dead, not to put a Targaryen on the throne. And neither have you, as far as I’ve been told.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make out a word, a cough behind them interrupted their conversation.

"Beware what you say, my dear brother. Someone who doesn't know your sense of honour might _misjudge_ your words."

Tyrion advanced, followed at close quarters by Ser Brienne.

She nodded to the two men, her figure made much more imposing than usual by the proximity to the dwarf. The concern and the bruises that had marked her face a fortnight earlier had faded away, leaving place to a weariness that made her look older.  
Her innocence was betrayed only by the blush colouring her face every time she felt ser Jaime’s gaze resting on her.  
Since their kiss in the Crypts she had been slippery, and much to his disappointment, kept trying to avoid the Lannister.

"We're all expected in the library to meet Lord Manderly." the hand of the Queen said, and the two men nodded, ready to follow suit.  
  


Without another word, all of them walked inside.  
Even from the centuries-old rooms, they could hear the South-East wind incessantly beating the towers of the castle. It made the doors creak and the hearths rumble, intensifying the ghostly feel instilled by the bare white walls of the corridors they were passing through.

Since when they had reached Whiteharbor, the library had become the survivors' headquarter.  
Compared to the one in Winterfell, this one was impressive. A dozen of dark wood bookshelves reaching the ceiling divided half of the room in narrow dark corridors, where hundreds of Maester’s records were stored in neat rows, along with countless volumes on healing, magic and engineering.

Sam spent most of his time there, studying the old books of House Manderly, looking for a hint about ancient magic rituals that could give the answer on how to defeat the Army of the Dead.  
The rest of them usually met a little further away, around a huge round table close to the fireplace, where a map of Westeros had been laid out. Markers signalled the places across the continent where it was fairly plausible to find people alive, whether it be potential allies or enemies.  
For days, they had been meeting in that very room with Lord Manderly, the head of the house hosting them, trying in vain to draw a winning plan.

Lord Manderly was clearly a man of the North.  
He was tall, and his scowling expression was hidden most of the time by grey long curls and a thick, black beard. He wore a dark fur coat all the time and Tyrion’s guess was that, had they met him in summer, he would have been wearing the same kind of attire.

He was a grim man, Lord Manderly, and never hid the aversion he felt towards the two Lannisters.  
Tyrion couldn’t blame him, his son Wendel had been killed at the Red Wedding, but trying to explain Jaime’s and his own non-involvement in the carnage was completely useless.

So the Lannister let the old man hold his grudge, preferring not to undermine the hospitality the survivors had been granted thanks to Sansa Stark and Jon Snow, whom the Lord kept addressing as Queen and King of the North, a practice that had hardly gone unnoticed by the Dragon Queen.

Due to his loyalty to the North he had welcomed, generously, the group from Winterfell.  
He had fed them, made sure the injured had been seen, and distributed the folks among his people’s houses. But their time in Whiteharbor, Tyrion knew, was about to expire.  
Problem was, Lord Manderly was fucking stubborn.

"Nonsense!" The old man roared vehemently for the umpteenth time in the last few days, just when Tyrion and his companions were entering the library and taking their places around the table.  
"White Harbour hasn't fallen in centuries, it won't this time either."

"My Lord, you don't understand. This is not a matter of strategy or capable warriors." Jon Snow was trying to explain to his subject. "You saw a couple of hundreds of survivors arriving, we were thousands fighting.  
Before the battle, at Winterfell, we thought we could at least manage their attack and ended up having to flee instead. This is not an army you can defeat with weapons.”  
He looked around briefly, his gaze resting on Bran for a moment, then continued, his tone almost pleading:  
“The Army of the Dead have started marching again and will be here in about two weeks. If you don't leave with us you won't have the possibility to reverse your decision".

"I won't leave my father's home, not even if my King asks me to." Lord Manderly retorted firmly, while Jon was glancing nervously at Daenerys, hoping she didn’t catch the way he had just been addressed, but, clearly, she wasn’t missing a word.

"I will stay and fight for it." The old man stated. "I'll let my people choose whether to come with you or stay, once you have decided where to go. I can grant you up to half a dozen vessels and 200 men, but only those who volunteer."

"Thank you my Lord." Jon conceded, resigned.

"I'll leave you with your plans, it seems you have much work to do." their host concluded.  
He nodded to the onlookers and then left.

They all watched him leave and then looked at the map in front of them, as if it could suggest the solution they had been missing for the past weeks.

"We have to leave soon and go South" Jon began, his eyes following the trails painted on the map.

"We need more fighters, and more weapons.”  
He pointed Dragonstone and looked up to Daenerys. Her eyes were cold.

“Our Queen has agreed to host all of us on Dragonstone.  
We've all settled it's the safest place for now, since the dead can't reach us through the sea.  
This should give us enough time to make new weapons out of the dragonglass left on the island. Gendry has accepted to oversee the forging." Jon summarised, not giving room for further dwelling on the matter.

As he expected, everyone around the table nodded in response, so the man went on.

"We are still not enough to fight and most of all, we don't know how to defeat the Night King yet.  
Sam, have you found anything in the books?" He asked his friend, hopeful.

"Not in those I've found here." his sworn brother answered grimly. "But I've not finished studying the ones from the Citadel yet. Gilly has kept them for me during the battle in Winterfell, so they're not lost" he concluded, smiling proudly.

"Thank you." Jon answered nodding, and shifted his focus back on the map.

Before he could go on, Sansa spoke:  
"What will happen when we reach King's Landing?  
You've already tried to convince Cersei to fight together and we all know how that ended" she said, casting a glance in Jaime's direction.

"Her brothers are both fighting with us this time. Maybe they could speak to her more effectively?" Jon said hopeful, looking in the Lannister’s direction.

The two of them turned at each other, exchanging a knowing look.

"With Euron Greyjoy and the Golden Company by her side she won't listen to any of us." Jaime said to the assembly.  
"Besides, as for how I left, she’ll likely send the Mountain to welcome me if I ever get back to King’s Landing.”

"If I may, -" Varys interjected with honeyed voice “I've heard some feeble songs from the South, which I think we all could find useful."  
He waited for a second, enjoying the feeling of having everybody hanging on his every word again after so much time, then went on:  
"King's Landing’s walls are being reinforced and equipped with ballistas.  
I heard that Cersei doesn't fear the undead, but the little birds I met had already flown away before I could hear what she plans to do about that.  
I expect to hear brighter songs the more we get South”

"The only thing Cersei understands is power." Sansa said, and everyone's gaze turned to her.  
"We must be a threat to convince her to collaborate, but we'll hardly be one with 500 men."

"We have two dragons." Daenerys said icily, and the room froze at her voice.  
"Let's convince her with strength"

"Still, we need more men" Jon answered, the only confident enough to reply.

"Yara Greyjoy has sworn her loyalty to me, if I summon her, she’ll come to Dragonstone with her men.”

They all fell silent, nobody daring to point out Yara could take weeks to reach them.

“I- I could try and send a raven home.” Sam stammered after a minute.  
“I renounced my title joining the Night’s Watch, but my mother and sister could ask someone…”  
Daenerys nodded in answer, while a pleased smirk was blossoming on her face.

"Cersei has thousands of men in her forces, plus the best army in Westeros and the Iron Fleet." Jaime intervened, resolute.  
"I don’t mean any offence, but others’ leftovers won’t be enough.”  
He took a piece from the side of the map and put it on Riverrun.

“Here are my men.  
I’m still their Commander as far as they know. I hardly believe Cersei has bothered to inform them of my defection.  
I’m not even sure she remembers they are hers, to be fair.”

"And you think they’ll blindly follow you against your sister? How do you know they’ll believe you and won’t betray us?" Sansa asked.

"Well, we won’t use them to attack King’s Landing, will we?” the Lannister countered.  
“We mainly need them to fight the Army of the Dead and as you said, we need any fighter we can get to convince Cersei she’s outnumbered. It’s the only way to even have a chance to convince her to fight with us.  
I trust my men will march with me, if I order them to. Besides, they don’t have to be informed on every detail.”

"How many of them?" Jon enquired.

"A few thousands.  
There’s that idiot of an uncle of yours there, too. If some of you Starks can convince him, we could double the troops.”

He looked around trying to suppress a triumphant smile. He knew the prospect was tempting.

After a brief silence, Sansa addressed her sworn sword:  
"Ser Brienne, you've already been there in my behalf to negotiate with my uncle, the Blackfish. Would you mind to represent me once again with Edmure?”

"I will, my Lady" the blonde knight promptly answered, lowering her eyes and furtively glancing at Ser Jaime, blushing.

“I don’t trust them.” Daenerys hissed, shooting a grudging look at the knight across the table “I want someone I can rely on with them.”

“With all due respect, we’re fighting the same war, I think I’ve proven that enough.” Jaime stated, cold. “Still, you don’t trust me?”

“You haven't bent your knee.”

“I will, to whom of those in this room will seat on the Iron Throne at the end of this war.  
**If** it is you, then I will bend my knee, not before.”

“You like playing with fire, Ser Jaime, don’t you?” Daenerys studied him, waiting for a response that didn’t come.  
“We need your armies right now. But beware, I won’t be so patient when peace comes.  
Besides, if this mission you’re presenting succeeds, you'll have an army of thousands with you. What guarantees you won't betray us, just like your sister?"

"I'm not her, my brother can reassure you on that. But if you need insurance, send one of your bodyguards with me, I won’t fight it."  
Silence fell around the table, nobody daring to speak in favour of one or the other.

"I'll go with them.” Jon said eventually “It will be better for Uncle Edmure to meet someone of the family, even if we're not directly related.  
I'll take some of the men too. We can't risk two Valyrian swords and our best commander - " he added, turning to Ser Brienne "- by sending them alone in the Riverlands.”

“I can come, too” Tormund growled, looking intensely in Brienne's direction, while she was suddenly very interested in the position of Old Oak on the map.

Daenerys silently accepted the offer with a smile-less nod and the atmosphere relaxed, but then Jaime spoke again.

"I'll take the army, at one condition though.  
If we come to a clash, Cersei won’t be killed right away, but will face fair judgement.  
She’s a monster, I don’t deny my part in allowing her to become what she is now, and I regret it, but she’s still my sister. I can’t fight a war knowing she’ll be cruelly tortured, brutally murdered and then see what is left of her thrown in the dirt. I need your word on this.”

The room fell in an uncomfortable silence.  
From the Queen’s side, Tyrion was glaring at his brother, concern darkening his features.  
Around the table nobody dared to even draw a breath, waiting for the dragon queen’s reaction.

"I know I shouldn’t speak, but sounds reasonable to me, your Grace". Tyrion tentatively intervened, preventing her to speak first.  
She didn’t answer, but stood stiff, glaring furiously to the man in front of her and studying him.

"Fine" she begrudgingly conceded at last, collected.  
"But neither of you will have a voice in her judgment.” She said to her Hand, before turning back to his brother.  
“And you'll be the first to bend the knee to me when I sit on the throne, Ser Jaime."

“I give you my word.” The knight accepted, with a hint of a stiff bow.

Silence fell for a moment.  
Tyrion furrowed his eyebrows and glanced again at Daenerys, impatient to change the subject.

"May I speak, your Grace?" At her nod of permission, he looked back at the map in front of him, pensive.

"We are at a crossroad. As Jon Snow said, we can't risk our men... and women, -” he added, glancing briefly at Ser Brienne ” by sending them unguarded in the country, when a terrible threat looms upon us.

At the same time, Dragonstone can’t house all of us. There isn’t enough room and hosting thousands of people will require endless supplies that we don’t have.  
I say our best shot is to split in two groups. We'll risk more men, it's true, but we'll have more possibilities to succeed.  
Jon Snow can take all of the Northmen with him. The wildling are already going, I suppose."  
An approving grunt came from Tormund in response, so the dwarf went on.

"My brother and Ser Brienne will go, of course, and anyone else keen to go on an adventure.

We'll bring the smallfolk, the injured and those who can't fight to Dragonstone, so that they can be safe from the Army of the Dead. As we’ve decided, Gendry and Ser Davos will supervise weaponry forging. The Queen's army will come too, of course."  
Around the table various voices agreed to the plan.

"We’ll have to sort out stocks.  
Fish can provide, there should be something left in the larder, and Lord Manderly can give us some provisions, but it won’t be enough."

"I’ll send a raven to Tarth. My father will send men and food." Brienne stated, surprising many who were unaware of her lineage.

"That would be much appreciated, Ser, thank you.  
Very well, then, it's settled. We'll leave in a sennight ". Tyrion concluded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Dany is not a mad queen in this story. You'll have better insight on her in the coming chapters.  
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> _Next chapter in 4 weeks, next update sometimes in the next couple of weeks_


End file.
